


You Can Sleep In This Box With Me

by Cat (ActualBuckyBarnes)



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Bonding, Critics Are Raving, Drug Use, Epilepsy, Fluff, I Did My Fucking Research, IT'S VERY SAD, M/M, Mental Illness, Mentions Of Tyler Oakley - Freeform, everyone is sad, not bondage, yay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-08-31 20:04:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8591710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActualBuckyBarnes/pseuds/Cat
Summary: Some people are born with tragedy in their veins: and I know two of them. My best friends, PJ and Chris.Then a small boy in mint green jumpers and bright blue flower crowns turns that number into three.





	1. And A Few More Of Your Least Favorite Things

I don't want to be here. 

_It's Social Studies_ , you say, _nobody wants to be here_.

But I don't think you understand. Anxiety's itching at my stomach, occupying my mind. I couldn't possibly learn right now, and sleeping the class away at this point is laughable.

But it's only the beginning of class, right?

Chris has been answering most of my texts, after all.

Then _he_ arrives, ruining any chance of me enjoying this class. He's wearing white skinny jeans and a mint green jumper, with a flower crown perched on top of his hair. He looks me up and down when he passes by me, which I decidedly do not like.

He must be new here- he obviously doesn't know who he's dealing with: Phil Lester, too scary for most people to hang out with, too depressing for the rest.

I glare at him, just to keep up appearances. It's laughable at this point, the effort I'd go to to keep people away. So they didn't end up broken, like everybody else.

He sits right behind me, the fucker, and puts his feet up right behind my head.

"Get those off my head," I said, voice carefully quiet as the teacher comes in. Pastel Asshole, as I've deemed him, complies, smirking. I bite back a growl, and the movement causes my nose to burn. Great. So Chris is missing, there's a Sophomore who thinks he's superior to me in every way, and now my septum piercing is infected.

I try to focus on the lesson, trying to rationalize with some part of my brain that Chris is probably under the bleachers with PJ, discussing life or whatever, but it still nags at the back of my brain.

Curiosity gets the better of me, so I sneak out my phone, and text him.

_Phil: m8 where are you_

_**Chris: somwhere greaat, whereer the fuck iy id** _

Well, that didn't seem promising.

Pastel Asshole is looking over my shoulder, peering at the text on the phone screen.

"Fuck off," I mutter.

"Ooh, edgy," Pastel Asshole retorts. He's still trying to look over my shoulder, and I'm getting a bit pissed.

" _Stop_ ," I hiss, glaring at him.

"Maybe... if you beg," Pastel Asshole says, still smirking. The final forty minutes of class cannot pass fast enough.

Giving up, I stuff my phone into my backpack and grab a book. If I can't hear or see him, he can't hear or see me.

Unfortunately, about half an hour into the last class of the day, the teacher spies me with a book in my hand.

"Lester! Put that back! Pay attention!" She says, startling me so badly I nearly fall out of my seat.

"Graceful," Pastel Asshole comments. 

"You'd leave me alone if you knew what was good for you," I say, keeping my voice low.

"I'm _so scared_ ," Pastel Asshole says sarcastically.

"Please, the scariest thing in this room is your hair," I say, "Next time you want straight hair, don't set it on fire."

"Says the guy who looks like he drowned his hair in dye."

I growl instead of responding, because honestly, it was the least aggressive thing I could've done in that scenario.

"Wow, we've got ourselves an O-G werewolf over here," Pastel Asshole smirks, "You know how I can tell? Your fucking hair."

The bell rings around this time, and I can't get rid of that kid soon enough, so my stuff's all put away. I swing my bag over my shoulder and nearly sprint out of the classroom.

Pastel Asshole taps on my shoulder in the hallway.

"I thought I told you to _leave me the fuck alone_ ," I snap. Pastel Asshole flips me off. His nails are neon pink.

"Next time you paint your nails, you should invite Tyler Oakley," I say, "I'm sure that prissy-ass Yankee would love to be your playdate."

"Who was it you were texting earlier? Your _boyfriend_?" He says, that smirk still etched deeply into his face. It makes him look arrogant.

"I don't have a boyfriend, fucktruck," I say.

Pastel Asshole's shit-eating grin only grows bigger.

"That insult was _so intimidating_ ," Pastel Asshole says sarcastically, "You're like a giant teddy bear, sweetheart."

"Phillllll," A familiar voice slurs, hands coming to rest on my shoulders. I know who it is by touch alone, and Chris is definitely not sober.

"What are you on?" Pastel Asshole asks rudely. Chris makes it worse by shrugging. Shrugging.

"Okay, where's Peej?" I ask gently, removing Chris' hands from my shoulders. His pupils are huge and his hands are shaking.

I guess it clicked in Pastel Asshole's brain somewhere that _this was the famous duo, the poor punk boy and his druggie friend_.

Chris shrugs again, grin huge on his face, "'Feel like I could run a lot."

"I know, I know," I say, grabbing my phone in my pocket.

"Peej? Oh thank God," I say, relief probably drowning my voice when he picks up.

_"What's up, Phil?"_

"It's... uh... Chris is high again."

_"On what?"_

"He isn't talking about that," I say, keeping my eye firmly trained on the man-child standing in front of me.

_"Let me guess..."_

"Come get him?"

_"Of course."_

* * *

When he gets here, I hug him. By now, the halls of the school are nearly empty.

"Thank you so much," I say. Chris is well beyond crashed by now, sitting in front of the lockers.

"You know I'd do almost anything for him," PJ sighs, wrapping Chris' arm around his shoulder, grumbling, "Come on, big boy."

"I'm hungry," Chris said, almost as if he were surprised.

" _Oh_ , you're Demon and Druggie-"

I grab Pastel Asshole by the shoulders and slam him into the locker. I'm just out of patience, I cannot deal with his antics any longer.

"You can annoy the shit out of me," I snarl, "You can insult my looks, my outfits, my awkwardness. But do not, under any circumstances, call Chris that rancid name. You'd think you'd understand what's good for you. Give you a hint: it's not me. Get lost. Got it?"

A flash of guilt races through me when his breath hitches. He nods, so I drop him. He scrambles away and... okay, maybe I feel a bit bad. A bit. It's worth it, to protect Chris, though.

I'm nearly the last person to leave school. I have to drive around back to get to the exit, and that's where I see the shaking shoulders- of someone in a mint green jumper and white skinny jeans.

_God, what have I done?_

I can't just _leave_ him there- it looks like it's about to rain and I don't think he's got a ride home.

So, instead of talking like a normal human, I sit down next to him. On the wall. We're the only people in sight.

"What are you doing here?" Pastel Asshole asks, eyes widening when he sees who's sat next to him. He tries to scramble away, but I stammer out an apology.

"Look, I- I'm sorry," I say, "I don't want to hurt you. Chris, well, he's kind of a sensitive subject."

Pastel Asshole gives me a weird look.

"Y'know, I don't even know your name," I say, glancing at my scuffed up shoes.

"It's Dan," Pastel Asshole says, wiping his tears off on his jumpers.

"Well, Dan, can I just apologize?" I ask.

"You already did-"

"No, I need to make it up to you somehow," I say. Dan furrows his brow, then says-

"Be my friend?"

"What?" I'm honestly astonished.

"Well, I've never really... had one? If that makes sense?" Dan said, picking at the grass. It was starting to drizzle, but only just. And anyway, even if it did start raining, we would be sheltered by the school's roof.

"No, that definitely makes sense," I grin, "Sounds like a fair trade."

The look on Dan's face was well worth it, and something inside of me broke, knowing that somehow, he'd do the same thing as Chris: he'd be added to our little group. Demon, Dreamer, and Druggie.

"Thank you," He says, and it sounds honest.

"So why haven't you had many friends?" I ask, genuinely curious.

"I'm always seen as the annoying rich kid that nobody wants to hang out with," Dan laughs sadly, "And to be honest, I'm not sure my parents would allow me to go over to a friend's house for more than three hours."

"Why?" I pried. I was curious, sue me.

"They're really strict," Dan answers, "Hell, I'll probably get grounded for this outfit. But it was worth it, to express myself for one day, even if I'm not being their perfect little bundle of joy."

"So... let's see..." I say, "We've got our own little group. There's me, Chris, and PJ. You've met all of them, and to be honest, our nicknames don't do us any good."

"I'm new, I'd heard some bad things about you," Dan shrugs, "I mean, not nearly as bad as Sam Pepper, but-"

"Yeah, I know, he's set the bar pretty low," I laugh, "And, don't believe any of the rumors."

"None of them? I heard you're great in bed," Dan jokes.

"Okay, maybe _some_ of them," I retort.

"If I may ask," Dan says, "What _is_ up with your group? You're really nice, from what I've seen-"

"We've all got our own little struggles," I say, "I'll tell you my part, but I think it's up to them to tell theirs. My family is pretty much broke. My dad's a gambler and my mom's a non-English speaking immigrant, so things are pretty rough. On the bright side, I grew up bilingual, I can speak German."

"What can you say?" Dan asks.

"Du hast schöne Augen," I say. _You have pretty eyes._ I'm not lying. His eyes are copper-colored. They remind me of the forest.

"What's that mean?" Dan asks, scooting a bit closer to me. He rests his head on my shoulder. His hair is soft.

"Your mum," I say, and Dan laughs as the raindrops get fatter and thicker.

"You should probably be getting home," I say. Dan nods, and I offer my leather jacket as a hood to protect him from the rain.

Dan stops.

"I... I don't have a ride," Dan says, looking almost scared.

"Well, hop into my luxurious ride," I say, opening the door and gesturing to the inside.

Dan grins brightly as he plops down in my beat-up Corvette.

"To be honest, I think if my parents weren't so worried about me leaving any time they give me any modicum of freedom, they'd have given me at least twenty fancy cars by now, " Dan's grin turns sour, "They seem to think that expensive gifts and awkward family dinners make up for never being there."

I purse my lips. My family always eats together, me and mum and dad and Martyn, when we have food to put on the table. Dan sounds like he eats breakfast alone.

And, of course, there's nothing I- or any of us, for that matter- can do. All of us are merely teenagers, too stupid and incompetent to do anything, after all.

"Oh," Is all I can manage to get through my throat and out my mouth. I'd always pictured rich people living the high life, surrounded by fun and games and friends.

I guess I was wrong.

Our school's something of a melting-pot, after all. From the two American exchange students, Tyler Oakley and Mark, whose last name I can't remember for the life of me. The students are pretty diverse, in regards to sexuality and skin color. There are kids living good lives, there are kids living horrible ones. 

The car isn't much to look at, but Martyn's fixed it up a few times, so it runs beautifully. Martyn and I are completely opposite, but he's my rock. He's the constant when Chris is borderline overdosing and PJ is too lost in thought to go close to the real world. Martyn's handy, that's his trademark. If you want a guy to punt a football, build a house, fix a refrigerator, Martyn's your guy. I'm the one who knows how to play music, that's my thing. I can relay my thoughts onto paper with surprising ease.

I wonder what Dan's really like as we drive down the road, lightning occasionally lighting up the sky.

Does he like hugs? What's his favorite movie? How does his brow crinkle when he's thinking? I always catalog these with my friends; I want to know their face, clear as day, even when they aren't around. Because they might leave forever.

I got pretty damn close to it, too. Too many times to count. With Chris, it's the drugs. With PJ, it's depression or depersonalization or recklessness. My friends aren't the kind of people who last long. That's what I've learned. And I hope to God Dan breaks that trend.

My thoughts are interrupted by thunder so loud it sounds like a gunshot. Dan squeaks next to me, and I laugh as I get closer to the inner city, where Dan said he wanted to go.

"Lily Street," Dan says, directing us to his house. Well, I say house, when in reality it looks like more of a mansion.

"I've probably got some explaining to do," Dan sighs, "Goodbye, Phil."

"Ugh, I _hate_ the word 'goodbye', it implies that we won't see each other again."

"Well, see you later, then," Dan says. There's a moment that passes between us- we might-almost-kiss, and then, nothing. Dan shuts the car doors and walks slowly through the rain to his house.

My mind is buzzing. It's all static, then a single thought floats through my brain.

_Oh. Shit._


	2. Isn't This Exactly Where You'd Like Me?

I hadn't gotten Phil's number- just another nail in the coffin of this shit-tastic day.

What I'd said about the friends and family was completely true: my mum wasn't home, and neither was my dad. Adrian had probably gotten himself some cereal or a Hot Pocket or something, so I helped myself to a microwave burrito.

Tumblr beckons me... from an Incognito tab, of course. Mum and dad would never let me on that website. Nope, no 'porn websites' for Daniel, and no numbers except theirs in his phone.

I huff out a sigh, laying back on my bed. It's uncomfortably comfortable- if that makes sense- and the blankets are too warm and it's just too fancy.

My mind is diluted with images of sky blue eyes and pitch black hair and leather jackets and skinny jeans-

Of course, having a gay son would make my parents the laughingstock of the community, so that wasn't allowed.

It seems that I'm only their concern when I'm getting into trouble.

Funny thing is- I'm not even gay. I'm not even sure what I am. I just know that in that moment, in Phil's old Corvette, that I wanted to kiss him. A lot.

And then it hit me- _I had a friend_. Someone who genuinely cared, someone who I could hug and go on cute little dates with a break down in their arms and them not flinching.

Little fantasies filled my head of Phil taking care of me- not caring if I had an anxiety attack, giving me attention, really loving me... for me!

My revelations were cut short by the front door opening. My mind went haywire, and I jumped up to throw on some bluejeans and a t-shirt. The pastel outfit found itself under my bed, safe from view.

"Daniel, do you have any homework?" My mom calls from the bottom of the stairs. No 'Hello, Dan, how was your day?' or any other _normal_ greeting, my mom immediately jumps to homework.

"No!" I lie. Of course, I do. I'm not even putting it off to go online. I just don't want to do it in front of my parents. They're very judgmental. I don't like it.

I start on my math. Trigonometry is harder than Geography, and if I weren't used to math-induced migraines, I would've given up a long time ago.

"Why the _fuck_ is that number imaginary?" I gripe, burying my head in my hands. Luckily, I manage to finish my homework without wanting to throw myself out the window too badly. Then, it's English, and then it's art, which I'm actually excited for.

My parents never really supported my interest in art, preferring to try and force me into Wall Street, or something along those lines. Business was a staple of the Howell family, with their own retail chain and... well... the family had dabbled in pretty much everything except the arts or sciences. The closest they'd gotten to a mathematician was my great-uncle Leon, who was an accountant. So, yeah, I'm probably headed towards a life of impeccable suits and diamond watches and long hours and a wife that doesn't quite love me.

I'm supposed to be sketching a family portrait, but I don't think I can. It's supposed to represent the love we have for our family, it's supposed to be one of those really long projects that you're supposed to hang on the wall- and I'm not sure I could. I could bullshit my way through poems and paintings, using bright colors and light pencil marks, but that would feel like a lie. And, unlike my relationship with my parents, I actually care about my art. I know it would sit under my skin and itch at my soul if I made my life seem perfect.

Instead of sketching something light and airy, the pencil in my hand makes dark marks that smudge, giving my eyes bags and making the whole thing dark and dismal. The smiles on our faces look false, just like in the photo I'm using as a reference. We're posing just like any other family, my dad and mum standing in the background and Vee- my brother- standing next to me. My arm is around his shoulders in a mockery of my parents.

I don't know the last time I even had a conversation with him for more than thirty seconds.

It's all too quiet in my house as I clamber off my bed, taking out my earbuds. I jump into my pajamas and brush my teeth, almost-not-quite side-eyeing the razor blade my dad uses for shaving.

Then I feel guilty. How could I even consider harming myself? How could anyone? I think that's the only thing stopping me from doing it, actually. I can't bring myself to slit my wrists or tie a noose. It's just so... permanent.

Maybe I'm hopeful. Maybe that's what's stopping me. I'm hopeful that my life is worth salvaging, that maybe one day I'll be able to draw someone's face when my teacher wants me to draw family.

And part of me would feel incredibly guilty for breaking like that. I've got a great home life, all I could ever want, money-wise. So my parents are a bit strict, plenty of people have strict parents. I have an easy life. I should be happy.

The two conflicting thoughts in my brain, the one that goes _you have a good life_ and the one that says _your life is through_ will be raging there until I leave everything behind.

Have I talked about that? Disappearing sounds amazing. Just becoming a face in the crowd to absolutely everybody sounds like heaven. Nobody to boss me around, just _existing_.

Daydreams consume my mind until I realize I'm still staring at the blade. So I turn off the faucet and shut the door, making my way back to my room. 

My bed is still too comfy. Too comfy to sleep in, too comfy to get out of.

* * *

My parents are downstairs when I wake up, I can hear them moving. I want them to go away.

Because, if they're around, I have to wear slacks and a button-up. I don't want to attract more hatred by appearing like a total snob, and after yesterday I've resolved to not act like a total asshole to new people.

Today I have art, science, English, and then a period to practice piano. I play for the choir.

In art, things go smoothly. Nobody talks to me- I'm wearing _slacks_ and a _button-up_ and I hate it- but nobody bothers me, either.

English is the same. I'm reading my textbook and chewing gum, disappointed by the lack of a certain punk. I'm in the AP class, meaning I'm sitting with a group of seniors who couldn't care less about me.

It's just after Science where I run into a problem. There's a commotion as a kid with a dog enters.

"You must be Mark," The teacher says, and Mark nods. His hair is blue and he's got a surprising amount of muscle.

"We are completely accepting of you, of course, please take a seat." Mark's starting to look uncomfortable, so I motion to a seat next to me. He looks really grateful when he sits next to me.

"What's your name?" Mark asks.

"Dan," I reply, "I'm new."

"Well, _why_ ," Mark does a double-take before groaning and putting his head down on his desk, " _Of course_."

"What?" I ask, completely confused.

"People feel the need to make extra accommodations for me, or whatever," Mark huffs, "Just because I have a fucking service dog. I understand I need _some_ extra catering, what with my _dog_ and all, but adults are fucking ridiculous."

I'm nodding through Mark's rant, and he finishes it by glaring in the teacher's general direction. She doesn't notice- or at least pretends not to.

"This is what I'm talking about!" Mark exclaims quietly, "I've cursed two times in the last minute and she doesn't even acknowledge it. I bet you'd get suspended for that kind of language."

"I'm glad you two are getting to know one another," The teacher says, passing back a worksheet.

"I have epilepsy, I'm not an alien," Mark grumbles. I can definitely relate to what he's experiencing.

"What's her name?" I ask, gesturing to the dog, whose laid her head on her paws and occasionally glances at Mark to see if he's okay.

"Chica," Mark says, looking just as grateful for my conversation as he was for the seat. I glance at my worksheet, and see terms I know all too well staring back at me.

"Oh look, we've arrived just in time for Sex Ed.," I sigh, and Mark bangs his head on the table.

"What is it this time?" I ask, rolling my eyes.

"The next time I hear 'AIDS' and 'gay' in the same sentence, I am going to scream," Mark says, defeated.

"You're gay too?" I gape.

"Well, not really," Mark says, "I consider myself pansexual, but I do lean more towards guys."

"That's cool," By now, I'm grinning. I've finally made my own friend. Y'know, one who didn't nearly beat me up after I insult his friend and then comfort me after I have a panic attack in the parking lot.

The rest of science is heavenly, me and Mark trading jokes as class goes on, and actually getting some work done.

"Want my phone number?" I ask, grinning. Mark nods, smiling just as much.

The bell rings right after I plug my number into Mark's phone.

"Y'know, I'm glad I met you," Mark says, and I can't hold back a smile as I look at him.

"I'm glad I met you too," I say, only walking away for a few seconds before I hear something I'd rather not.

"Hey, cripple!" A boy says, and I know that can only be directed at one person.

And I won't stand for it.

I turn around to see a boy with curly brown hair and grey eyes and crooked teeth. 

"Leave him alone!" I say.

"Who're you?" The boy sneers.

"I'm Dan Howell, pleased to make your acquaintance," I say coldly, and their eyes widen. Mark's do too.

"Now, if you please, leave my friend the fuck alone," I snarl. The boy and his posse, a girl in a beanie with blue eyes and grey-brown hair, a blond with a bowl-cut and green eyes, and a third, another girl with silver hair and brown eyes. They all backed off.

"Howell?" Mark said, voice quaking.

I'm thrown back to an interview a few years ago.

_The question had been, "What will you do about the accusations of ableist merchandise being sold in your store, or allegations of harassment towards handicapped workers and customers?"_

_"Even if we were selling merch to bring special snowflakes down to Earth, or if my personnel were 'harassing handicapped people', I wouldn't deny it. They deserve what they get, they should be accommodating to the majority, we shouldn't have to bend to less than one percent of the world's population."_

And then I was back in the present, Mark staring at me with an open mouth and my lips open to apologize for anything my dad said- because of course I don't share his views- Mark made a choked sound. Then he fell to the floor.

Chica immediately sprung into action, growling at anybody who got too close, sniffing at Mark's neck, and wriggling until she was underneath Mark's head as he convulsed. Even the adults who came in to help got growled at, although they didn't let it stop them.

"What are you doing?" I ask, perhaps too aggressively, to a persistent maths teacher, who seems to think he knows how to cure seizures.

"I'm going to hold his limbs down. It'll help him," The teacher states, matter-of-factly. My heart's pounding in my chest, I hope I'm doing the right thing.

"Wouldn't the service dog be doing that if that was how to help him?" I say, and the teacher gives me a stern look, but then Mark stops convulsing. He blinks slowly and groans, and Chica jumps out and starts sniffing him.

"I'm fine, girl, thank you," Mark says, sitting up and scratching her head. The golden retriever licks his face a few times.

"Need help?" I ask, long before the maths teacher can get the words past his mouth.

"No," Mark says, looking a bit panicked.

"I don't think about disabled people like my dad does," I say, "He's awful about that."

"But, he said-"

"He said a lot of things," I retort, "Remember what he said about gay people?"

"I'm so sorry," Mark grins, and if I'm not mistaken, his teeth look a bit bloody. He sways on his unstable feet and I catch him.

"It's completely fine," I reassure him.

"These damn attacks always happen at the worst time," Mark says, yawning.

"Come with me," The maths teacher says.

"Honestly, I'm fine," Mark tries to say, but the teacher grabs him from me and drags him away.

"What do you know? You're a teenager," He says, "Howell. Get to class."

I nod, walking off to the choir room. I barely catch a head of black hair in the hallway.

"Phil!" I cry, overjoyed. 

"Kiddo!" He says in reply, hugging me and lifting me off the ground.

"Shut up," I grin, "Where'd you come from?"

"Choir," Phil shrugs, "Where you off to?"

"Piano practice," I'm smirking, "Who do you think plays for you insufferable assholes?"

"You sneaky, talented bitch," Phil says, "I forgot to get your number yesterday."

"You want it now?" I ask, fishing my phone from my pocket. And then, I have two new numbers in my phone. Today's really shaping up to be one of the better days of my existence.

"Well, the piano beckons," I say, unable to wipe the smile from my face.

"And I, unfortunately, have class," Phil says, "See you in History tomorrow?"

"Of course," I grin, and Phil ruffles my hair.

"You're cute." He walks off.

Those words don't leave my brain for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I did put a lot of research into epilepsy, but I do not have any personal experiences with it, so if I've misrepresented it in any way please don't hesitate to let me know! Here's my [Tumblr](http://llamaswithbeanies.tumblr.com/), please check it out or feel free to message me!


	3. She Held The World Upon A String

I wake up and slip on a dress. 

It feels _wrong_. 

Just looking at the flowery skirt or my curvy chest makes me feel like throwing up. The tights aren't any better, and wearing high-heels feels ridiculously degrading. I'm doing my makeup in the mirror, and I feel like garbage. Today's going to be _great_. Actually, I think I've seen a word that equated to this somewhere, _dysphoria_? Maybe. That sounds about right.

"Hi," I practice to my reflection, "I'm... I'm Shauna."

The name tastes like dirt on my tongue. I despise it. My friends don't make it any better- Cat takes me make-up shopping and Sam is constantly flirting and Connor's... well, Connor's perfectly fine. Just quiet.

I say the name again. And again and again and again until I can say it without frowning, without letting a flicker of doubt cross my face. It feels like I'm saying someone else's name.

"Hi," I try, "My name's Sean. Nice to meet you."

The other name feels refreshing, and I can't help a grin spreading across my face. It feels like I was in a fire and got thrown into a pool. But then I have to get up and walk back into the fire. And so I do.

I've tried other names too; I think I like Sean the best, maybe Jack too. But then I think about other people using the name and my heart beats too fast and my chest constricts and... I haven't been able to tell anybody.

My too-feminine face, which holds my too-long hair, which sits on top of my stubbornly curvy body- I hate it all. It looks like I can't possibly be this _creature_ standing before me.

It's tiring- that's what this whole masquerade is. Exhausting. Draining.

"Shauna, so glad you could make it," My dad laughs when I give up and walk into the kitchen. I laugh too, a genuine sound that rings sourly through my brain.

"I'm a girl," _Lie_ , "Aren't we supposed to take forever to get ready?"

"I guess," My dad shrugs. He gets back to his laptop.

I pour myself some cereal and sit down... and I can't eat. My stomach doesn't want to accept food. I play with my hair, deciding that putting it in a bun is a nice compromise with my body.

It still weighs my head down.

I give up on breakfast too, dumping my bowl into the sink and grabbing my bookbag.

"Shauna, breakfast is the most important meal of the day-"

"Sorry, I can't right now, goin' to be late-" My half-assed excuse is interrupted by the door shutting. I sigh in relief and hop into my car.

I play music on my way to school, simply to have something to keep me grounded in reality.

Then the worst part of the day arrives: interacting with people. I have to listen to my too-high voice say my _wrong_ name and I have to wink and act pretty. I despise it.

"What's up, Shauna?" Sam asks me, tapping my ass as he passes by.

"You know I don't like that," I say, "And not much. You?"

"My parents are assholes, as usual." Honestly, Sam Pepper just makes me feel uncomfortable. He's always doing weird PDA things that I've repeatedly told him I don't like- honestly, I'm only still friends with him to have friends.

"I have class," I say, "Later, mate."

Sam grins at me as I walk away and to my classes.

* * *

We're walking in the hallway when Sam spots him- and my heart sinks. People around here have grown used to Sam's antics, but I fear for the new kid.

"Hey, cripple!" Sam yells, and the kid with the service dog spins around, looking mildly terrified, "What's wrong? Are you gonna flail around at us until we go away?"

"Leave him alone!" Another kid, a shorter brunet in slacks and a button-up (who the fuck picked his outfits?) yells at Sam. I wish I had his courage.

"Who're you?" Sam sneers, and I swear I can hear the surprise in his voice behind a thick layer of greasiness.

"Dan Howell," The brunet answers, voice calm and cold, "Pleased make your acquaintance. Now, if you please, leave my friend the fuck alone."

Whoever said names don't have power was so wrong it's painful. As soon as the word 'Howell' drops from Dan's mouth, the temperature in the room drops ten degrees and everyone gapes in shock. Even me.

"Howell?" The kid with the service dog says numbly, and then he makes an odd noise and drops to the floor, shaking a lot.

I know, somewhere in my mind, that he's having a seizure, but I don't know what the fuck to do. Sam's walking away, but my eyes are glued to the boy in front of me. His dog makes quick work of making sure nothing's on his throat before wriggling under his head.

Dan's arguing with my Calculus teacher, Mr. Little, and about a minute later- although it feels like an eternity- Service Dog Kid groans and stops shaking.

Service Dog Kid sits up, stroking his dog, praising her actions and trying to stand up, and Dan grabs his shoulders when he starts to sway.

"'m fine," He tries to tell Mr. Little, but my math teacher is having none of it, as he usually is, and drags Service Dog Kid to the nurse's. I decide quickly to follow him, because although I'm not as brave as Dan Howell, I am certainly not about to become a coward.

I find I'm very good at hiding.

Mr. Little is outraged when the nurse says that there really is nothing wrong with Mark except a bleeding cheek. I'm hiding outside the door, behind a trash-can, and I can hear the conversation perfectly.

"He must've bitten it," The nurse shrugged, "You want some water, kiddo?"

"But..." Mr. Little struggles to respond, "He was _having a seizure_!"

"What did you think my service dog was for, sir?" Service Dog Kid says scathingly, "To help me with my English?"

"You will not take that tone with me, young man!" Mr. Little retorts.

"In all fairness, sir, Mark does have a point," The nurse says, and I hear Mark spit out some water to get rid of the blood in his mouth.

"You should be good to go!" The nurse says, "Unless Richard wants me to give you a prostate exam too."

"God, I hope not," Mark laughs, "I'm just a bit disgruntled because _some people_ can't learn to respect me or my privacy."

"I swear, boy," Mr. Little growls, "One more disrespectful word out of your mouth an you'll be suspended faster than you can say, 'Disabled'."

Mark shuts his mouth really quickly after that.

Mr. Little exits first, then Mark.

"Hey," I say, tapping him on the shoulder. He turns around and for the first time, I really appreciate his body. It's muscular and handsome, and to be honest, I'm jealous, both because he's been blessed to be born into a body that fits his gender, and of the girl that gets to be his one day.

"Sorry about Mr. Little, he doesn't know jack shit."

"I figured," Mark replies, looking me up and down. It makes me feel self-conscious (as per reasons I've stated before).

"What's your name?" Mark asks, and I stumble over my words.

"Shua- Shauna." I say, and it's been too long since I've said it, because a flicker of doubt crosses my face and I say my name like a question and not a name.

"Sounds a lot like you don't know your name," Mark snickers.

"Shut it, yankee," I snap back, smiling. It must look hollow, though, because Mark gives me a curious look.

"Wanna cut class?" I suggest, forcing my face back to normal, "There's a playground a mile away with our names on it."

"You sure we won't get in trouble?" Mark asks quietly, before taking it back, "Y'know, in this place, I could say I was just disoriented and you were trying to get me back to class and they'd eat it up like a Nicolas Sparks novel, let's go."

 _Yeah, a real Nicolas Sparks novel contender_ , I think bitterly, _A not-girl and the straight, handsome almost-stranger. With epilepsy._

"Actually," Mark says as we get to the parking lot, "Maybe not Nicolas Sparks. Maybe John Green."

"Y'know, I've always preferred John Green," I laugh, "The dog gets shotgun, right?"

"Ha, yeah," Mark laughs.

I giggle, opening the back door for Mark's dog.

"What's her name?" I ask, "Sorry, I just don't think I got it."

"Chica," Mark says, giving her ears a scratch as he climbs into shotgun.

 _Damn_ , I think, maybe staring at his shoulders a little. A little. Don't judge me. They're very nice.

I start my car and then we're driving to the playground a mile out from the school.

"So... should we get to know each other?" I ask him on the way.

"No," He says sarcastically, "We should just remain complete and total strangers and somehow still manage to be friends."

"Alright, smartass," I say, grinning, "We're here anyway."

Mark smiled cheekily back at me, stepping out of the car and grabbing Chica's leash.

"Where to, my fair maiden?" Mark asked, laughing. I decide in that moment that, no matter what kind of little white lie I'm living, I'm going to let myself go. I'm gonna have some fucking fun and I'm going to enjoy myself.

"Let's go on the merry-go-round!" I squeal.

Mark laughs and takes me by the hand, and we run to the ride, and I sit with my legs dangling off it. Chica jumps into the center and Mark runs with it before jumping on.

* * *

We spend the rest of the day laughing. It's been too long since I've given up the whole "teenager" thing and acted like a child.

And I'm horrified to think that I'm beginning to get a crush on Mark. There's a nagging feeling in my heart as I gaze at him, as we're pretending to be pirates on the slides.

"Yarr!" Mark declares, "Ye shall walk the plank, fer being too goddamn pretty!"

Mark shoves me towards the slide, and I laugh loudly as I slide down. Mark follows, and he encourages Chica to go down the slide too.

"Why, hello there," Mark says, that sideways grin etched on his face, "How're you?"

He places his hands on my hips, and for a second I think he's going to kiss me-

"I... Please let me go," I say. Immediately, Mark drops his hands, which I blankly register in my brain. Sam never did that.

"I'm so, so sorry," Mark immediately apologizes, "I just read that whole situation wrong... I hope this doesn't affect us, I was really starting to get excited about our friendship-"

"No," I say, interrupting him, "Don't feel bad. It's not that I'm not romantically interested... I am... I just..."

"You have other reasons," Mark finishes for me, "I totally understand."

"They're really stupid reasons," I admit, smiling apologetically.

"No reasons are stupid, I promise," Mark says, "Now, funny reasons, on the other hand-"

"It's definitely a stupid reason-"

"Shauna, I've said before-"

"That's not my name!" I yell, and Chica looks up from her spot on the ground, concerned.

"What-"

"Oh... oh no." My hand makes its way to my mouth as my great secret slips through. I could survive that with everyone else- just... not Mark.

"Hey, it's okay," Mark says as tears well up in my eyes, "You're okay. What _is_ your name, then?"

"It's not just the name..." I say, trying to take a deep enough breath to continue speaking.

"What is it?" Mark asks, "You don't have to tell me- I can tell it's giving you a lot of trouble-"

"I'm trans," I blurt out, waiting for the inevitable. Instead, I feel arms wrap around me.

"And I'm pansexual," Mark grins, "You're beautiful."

And that's the moment when I really break down, burying my face in Mark's neck and sobbing.

"Thank you," I manage to blubber. I feel like an infant.

"Thank _you_ ," Mark says in reply, "It takes a lot of courage to come out."

My arms snake around his body. The hug is nice. Mark smells like cinnamon.

"I know, I know," Mark says, rubbing the back of my neck, "Take your time."

"You're too kind to me," I say. There are probably tracks in my makeup, my hair's probably a mess too.

"I'm not nearly kind enough," Mark says.

It's then that I realize with sinking certainty, _I have a crush on him_.


End file.
